


A Want of Courage

by geekmama



Series: Honorable Intentions [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-12
Updated: 2016-04-12
Packaged: 2018-06-01 18:45:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6531655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekmama/pseuds/geekmama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Much to her dismay, it's Molly's turn, and the Chinese stir-fry is off the menu.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Want of Courage

**Author's Note:**

> All the fluff all the time. And h/c. And blood. But not *that* much. A bunch of words for the "Red" prompt. Errors are my own (let me know if you see something too egregious). 
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> ******************************

Blood on the floor, in the sink, on the large and very sharp chef’s knife that lay on the bloody counter by the cutting board full of Chinese vegetables.

Sherlock yelled, “ _Molly!_ ” and strode from the kitchen.

She was huddled in the loo her left hand wrapped in a bloody towel, tears streaming.

He pulled out his mobile and texted John -- SH: Molly injured, come at once -- then told her, “John will be here in five minutes, he just left me. Let me see it.”

“It’s b-bad,” she said, tremulously. “The knife… I slipped, or it did, I think. I… oh, Sherlock. So _s-stupid!_ ”

She gave a sob as he unwrapped it and wiped away the welling blood. A long cut ran down the pad of flesh at the base of her thumb. “Try to flex your hand,” he demanded.

She obeyed, successfully, but gave another sob. “It _hurts!_ ”.

“Of course it hurts,” he said, voice rough with relief. He wrapped the towel around it again, saying, “I believe it’s only a flesh wound. Hopefully John will confirm that and can stitch it up for you.”

“That… that’s good. But stitches! Oh my God! _I’ve never had to have stitches!_ ”

John walked in three minutes later to find Sherlock sitting on the lidded toilet with Molly on his lap. She was weeping into his coat.

Sherlock said, “She’s cut her hand, but I believe it just needs stitching.”

John murmured soothingly as he made a thorough examination of the injury. Molly clung to Sherlock and trembled. Presently John said, ”Sherlock’s right. You’re a lucky woman. A dozen or so stitches and you’ll be good as new in a couple of weeks -- long before the wedding.”

“A _dozen_!” Molly almost wailed and burst into fresh sobs.

John looked confused.

Sherlock, refraining from laughter with some effort, said, “Apparently she’s never had to undergo such a medical procedure. And don’t bring up her own vast experience and expertise in that area. She’s already informed me that’s not the same thing at all.”

John did laugh, though a bit uncertainly. “Well, we can run her over to the A&E. They’d be able to give her a sedative. Take the edge off.”

But Molly sat up at that point and tried to pull herself together. “N-no. I’ll be alright.”

“That’s my brave Molly,” Sherlock said, bracingly.

She nearly broke down again.

 

**-o-o-o-**

 

Two hours later, it was all over. Mary had shown up when they were about halfway through the procedure and had swiftly cleaned up the mess in the kitchen, called in John’s order to the chemist for antibiotic tablets, and Sherlock’s order to The Savoy for some very posh take-away (“The manager owes me a favor.”). Molly was now curled up on the couch, watching “crap telly” with her favorite people in the world, an afghan over her legs, a soft pillow on her left knee cushioning her neatly bandaged hand, while on the right she balanced a plate of excellent supper of which she’d eaten approximately two bites. She was trying to remember to be cheerful, but mostly she just looked wan, miserable, and not a little mortified.

As the program was ending, Mary got up. “Let me have your plates, I’ll clean up in the kitchen before I go. Have to get back to Gracie.”

John rose, as well. “Molls, you get some rest, yeah? You’ll feel better tomorrow.”

A few minutes later they were out the door. Sherlock closed it, set the lock, and turned to her. “Bed?”.

 

**-o-o-o-**

 

They were lying close in the darkness, Molly’s bandaged hand resting on Sherlock’s chest, his own hand curled light and warm atop it. He knew she was exhausted, yet she seemed unable to sleep. After a while he kissed her forehead.

She stirred against him and gave an unhappy sigh. “I’m so sorry,” she said, quietly.

“Don’t be absurd.”

“I’m not! I should have shown more _courage_. You must think me ridiculous.”

“Nooo. I cried like a baby, too, the first time I had to be stitched up.”

“Did you?” She sounded a little comforted. “When was that?”

“I don’t remember precisely. I was about four, I believe”.

“Four!” Molly exclaimed, and gave a crow of rueful laughter, for the first time that evening. “ _Only_ thirty years younger than I. Poor, poor little boy!”

He sniffed. “You should save your pity for Mycroft. I barely remember it, but I think he holds it against me to this day. Our parents were from home and he and the housekeeper had to take me to the clinic - I’d cut my foot on something. He stayed with me the whole time and was treated to full on hysterics when I found out what they were about to do. By the end of it he was thoroughly traumatized. And later Mummy gave him a tremendous scold for permitting me to go without shoes in the garden.”

“Oh, poor Mycroft. But… _permitting_ you? That doesn’t sound like him, even if he _was_ only eleven.”

“It wasn’t like him. It’s what I told her.”

“Sherlock!”

He shrugged. “It was her standing rule I was to wear shoes if I was going outside. I had to think up something to get out of being spanked.”

“Your mother? I can’t believe she _ever_ spanked you!”

“No. But Mycroft had put it into my head she might -- he was a bit rubbish that way. Nevertheless, after I’d given my false testimony, he was furious and wouldn’t speak to me for days. I’d relish that now, of course.”

“But you didn’t then,” she guessed.

He grimaced slightly in the darkness. “We made it up, more or less, just before he went back to school at the end of the week.”

“That week must have seemed forever at that age. Did he make you confess to your mother?”

“Nope.”

“Oh, craven! You _were_ a bad ‘un. Naughty Sherlock.”

“Miss Hooper, you knew what I was before you agreed to marry me.”

“So I did. I’ve made my bed and now must lie in it.”

“With me, preferably..”

She chuckled, and curled closer to him. After a pause she said, “We _could_ do a bit more than lie.

“You think so?”

“If we’re very careful.”

“I can be careful, given sufficient motive.”

“And perhaps it would help us sleep.”

He smiled and _carefully_ turned toward her. He said in a low voice, soft against her lips, “ _Us?_   Well... perhaps it would at that.”

 

~.~


End file.
